


Visitors

by Riona



Series: Visitorverse [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Gen, Inspired By Sense8, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:39:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who are we, who have been so blessed to share our stories like this? To speak across centuries?</p>
<p>(Altaïr, Ezio, Edward, Haytham, Shay, Connor, Aveline, Desmond: eight people strangely bonded, able to meet and converse and occasionally attempt to murder each other across the boundaries of time and space. Inspired by <i>Sense8</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Aspects of _Sense8_ really reminded me of the Bleeding Effect, and so, inevitably, here we are. This should be understandable even if you haven't seen _Sense8_ , I hope!
> 
> It was a lot of fun to think about how these characters might interact.

Altaïr has paused to watch the novices training, newly a novice again himself. He’s debating whether to join them – humiliating, but in working on the basics he can show Al Mualim that he’s taking his demotion seriously – when he notices that someone is watching him. A young man. A stranger. He wears a hooded cloak of some sort, but not in the Assassin style.

“Who are you?” Altaïr asks.

The stranger starts and looks down at himself, as if surprised to find his own body there. “Uh,” he says, after a moment. “You’re talking to me?”

“I know the others,” Altaïr says. “Tell me who you are.”

“Desm— uh, Desmond... wait, no, this can’t be happening,” the man – Desmond – says. “You’re not really _here_. I’m just living through your memories. And you definitely can’t remember having a conversation with me.”

Altaïr has met Assassins so practised at moving unnoticed that they slip through one’s memory like water. He himself, as certain brothers are fond of reminding him, is too arrogant to hope to achieve such invisibility. Still, the idea that history might remember him is not one he finds particularly troubling.

It’s hard to decipher Desmond’s words, but he seems to believe himself one of the invisible ones. Desmond is far from invisible. Desmond, in fact, with his strange accent and stranger clothing, would have trouble being more noticeable if he opted to walk on his hands.

Which is why...

“Nobody else is looking at you,” Altaïr says. The Assassins around them have cast looks at Altaïr himself, something he’s more than used to, but nobody has spared a glance for the curious intruder before him. “Why? Are you known here?”

“No, this is what I’m saying. This isn’t real. This conversation never happened.”

“Speak sense,” Altaïr advises him. “I am not known for my patience.”

“I don’t think they can see me,” Desmond says. “Or hear me. You shouldn’t be able to either. I think maybe I’m having a dream.”

The man is unwell, Altaïr concludes. Or feigning illness to infiltrate Masyaf.

“I have been ordered to Damascus,” Altaïr says, grabbing Desmond’s elbow and steering him firmly towards the gates. “I will escort you there, if you don’t annoy me into throwing you off my horse. They have more skilled doctors than you will find here in Masyaf.”

Desmond initially flinched as if expecting to be stabbed when Altaïr grabbed him, but now he’s allowing himself to be led, staring at Altaïr’s hand.

“You can touch me?” Desmond asks. “You can _touch_ me? I can feel that! How the hell—”

And Desmond disappears.

Later, when Altaïr is riding to Damascus, an unknown woman will appear on his horse. Later still, as he stands on a rooftop in Jerusalem, he will find himself instead in a room with a man named Ezio, who will fall to his knees and kiss his hands. Much, much later, when he is knocked off the Acre docks by a drunkard, the man he will know by then as Edward will possess his body, just for a moment, and swim him to safety.

For now, Altaïr stands there, his hand still raised, staring at nothing.

Can he be sure he didn’t die when Al Mualim stabbed him?

-

Shay is a promising young recruit Ezio has ‘visited’ a handful of times. Ezio has been looking forward to meeting him again, hoping to see him in action as an Assassin.

Their next meeting probably isn’t what either of them expected.

“Shay?” Ezio asks.

Shay is shaking.

“I just escaped Lisbon,” he whispers.

There must be something more to this. “I’ve been chased from my share of cities myself.”

Shay looks up at him. “I destroyed it. I destroyed Lisbon.”

What?

“Shay, one man cannot destroy a city.”

“It was a Piece of Eden. Achilles sent me to get it.”

A Piece of Eden? Ezio has seen the power of the Apple. But an entire city?

“Achilles knew,” Shay mutters. “He must have known.”

“Achilles is your mentor, yes?” Ezio asks. “How could he have known?”

“Same thing happened in Haiti. Four years ago.”

“And you’re sure he knew this would be the same?”

“He must have known it was a risk,” Shay says. “And that means he cared more about the artifact than all those innocent lives.”

Ezio looks at Shay, who showed such promise in his training, who couldn’t quite hide how awestruck he was when he first met Ezio after hearing so much about him, who looks sickened by himself and his cloak and the blades on his wrists.

“I know you still believe in our Creed,” Ezio says. “If you think your Brotherhood is corrupt, fight to reform it. Do not abandon your calling. You are an Assassin.”

“I’m a killer,” Shay says. “I used to think there was a difference.”

-

“Oh,” Edward says. “It’s you.”

Ezio was his first visitor; he showed up all the way back when Edward killed that Assassin, Walpole, and was _very_ disapproving. Now, standing in the ruins of his life amongst the ghosts of his friends, Edward really isn’t in the mood to hear it.

“You still wear our costume,” Ezio says.

“It reminds me of a friend,” Edward says. “Seems like reminders are all I’ve got left.”

Ezio considers him. “You are not alone, Edward.”

“What, because I’ve got you?” Edward asks, with a bitter laugh.

“You have all of us,” Ezio says, spreading his hands. “And you have an entire Brotherhood waiting for you, if you wish to join it.”

It’s true that Edward still has his motley collection of visitors, but he doesn’t actually get on that well with half of them; most of them seem to disapprove of the pirate life. One of the few who doesn’t seem to judge him is a strange, secretive man in a cocked hat, who is courteous enough but refuses to tell Edward his name or anything about himself. Hard to make friends under those circumstances. Edward can talk easily with Shay, but he’s suspected for some time that Shay’s and Ezio’s loyalties lie at odds.

Not that he especially cares what Ezio thinks. But that means that Shay’s loyalties also oppose Kidd’s, and Kidd matters.

“Here’s the thing,” Edward says. “You want me to believe in your Creed myself? I don’t know if I’m there yet. But it meant a lot to a friend of mine.”

“People come to the Creed for many reasons,” Ezio says. “That would not be the worst.”

“Then maybe.” Edward picks up a stick from the shore, starts tracing patterns in the sand. “I’m running out of dreams. Might as well chase someone else’s for a while.”

-

Eventually, you come to recognise the tingling sensation that usually accompanies a visitation. Haytham looks around, hoping for anyone but his father. His father is less inclined to tedious moralisation than most of the host in his head, at least, but something about his presence makes Haytham stray strangely close to shame. It is not a feeling Haytham experiences often, and not one to which he plans to become accustomed.

Nobody seems to be around. The slaves work the plantation; the night is still. This has happened a couple of times before. Phantom visitations, he supposes.

He strides away, making for the harbour, and suddenly one of the slaves has him pinned against the barn door and her hidden blade is at his neck. He barely manages to grab her wrist in time.

Not a slave, he realises, too late. An Assassin. And not just an Assassin...

“You’re one of the visitors,” he says, straining to keep the blade at bay. “Aren’t you?”

“There will be time enough for questions once I cut your throat,” she says.

Haytham wonders, fleetingly, what this must look like from the outside. Is he struggling to stab himself with his own hidden blade?

An undignified death. He won’t have it.

In one sudden movement he forces her away from him and drops his weight, flicking out both his hidden blades. He doesn’t know whether it’s possible to harm a visitor, rather than someone you’re visiting – her body isn’t physically here, is it? – but it seems the perfect opportunity to find out.

But she disappears almost in the same moment. Planning to return for another attempt later on, he assumes.

Attempting to murder a fellow visitor is a temptation he’s known himself, of course; he’s found himself within striking distance of Ezio Auditore and Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad, for goodness’ sake. But these are extremely famous historical figures, whose lives and deaths are well documented. The Assassins and the Templars are so closely entwined that killing one of the major Assassin leaders before their time, changing history that drastically, could have unforeseen consequences for the Templars as well.

The other visitors... well, he won’t kill his father. He might kill his son – that remains to be seen – but he would prefer not to; there’s still something of Ziio in Connor. Desmond seems to think he’s trying to save the world; it’s probably best to gather more information, be absolutely certain that he isn’t right, before disposing of him. Shay is an ally.

But it turns out there’s another of them. This young woman.

Haytham finds himself smiling. It’s been a while since he last had a truly interesting opponent.

-

Altaïr is older than Shay has seen him before, and he speaks less rashly. Shay can see, now, something of why the Assassins talked of him so reverently. But it won’t change anything. His path is set.

“I understand your doubts.”

“They aren’t doubts,” Shay says. “I know what I’m doing at last.”

“My mentor tried to betray humanity. I had a hand in it. Like you, I felt my Creed had led me to evil acts.”

“And what did you do afterwards?” Shay asks.

“I tried to set things right,” Altaïr says. “I can see you are doing the same. But it seems we have different ideas of the right course. The Brotherhood is not itself evil.”

“Maybe not in your day.”

“It has always needed guidance. You could change it from within.”

“ _Surprise!_ ” comes a shout above them, and Shay reacts almost without thinking; he twists, extending his hidden blade into the air to meet the stalker’s throat as she drops.

“Ezio tried to tell me the same,” he says, toeing her body. “Don’t know if they’d want me back, really.”

Altaïr stands frowning down at her. “In my day,” he says, “shouting ‘surprise’ before an assassination attempt was strongly discouraged.”

“In your day, maybe an Assassin was something worth being. Things change.”

Altaïr is silent for a moment, then looks up at Shay. “You’re afraid you’ll have to kill your old brothers.”

Shay hesitates, thinking of Hope, thinking of Liam.

“Yes,” he admits.

“Listen to them,” Altaïr says.

“If I have to do it, I’ll do it,” Shay says. “Words won’t stop me. You didn’t see Lisbon. The power we’re talking about, all the good intentions in the world won’t mean a thing.”

“I didn’t tell you not to kill them,” Altaïr says. “I told you to listen. When you take a man’s life, you owe it to him to hold him in your arms and look into his eyes as he dies. You don’t have to believe his last words, but you have a responsibility to hear them.”

-

Connor has been haunted by his father for most of his life. His vision of the Assassin symbol awoke something in him, he supposes. He can still hear the words Haytham hissed in his ear as he went to seek training from Achilles: “ _Connor, I absolutely forbid this. I am your father. Do you understand?_ ”

The name ‘Connor’ meant nothing to him at the time, of course. It was their first meeting from Connor’s perspective, but evidently not from Haytham’s.

Somehow, when he stood over his father’s body, he thought that would be the end of it. The others would still visit, but his father would be out of his life.

Of course, that’s traditionally when the haunting _begins_. He’s met men who died centuries ago; did he really think death would free him?

He sees Haytham on the homestead and he thinks _dark-haired, younger, visiting, not really here_ before he remembers that Haytham, in his time, is dead. He’ll never really be here again. It’s a strange combination of regret and relief; he still can’t sleep for thinking about his blade in his father’s throat, but he can’t pretend that he didn’t fear for the homestead’s residents for just a moment, seeing that familiar stance.

“Don’t stare, Connor,” Haytham says. “And what have you done to your hair? Do you expect to pass unnoticed on the streets of New York? I hope you keep your hood up.”

Connor looks away.

“I killed you,” he says, quietly.

There is a pause.

“Right,” Haytham says. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t know you were an ungrateful boy.”

“I’m telling you now,” Connor says, turning again to look at his father. “So you must have known. Why didn’t you try to kill me earlier?”

Haytham considers him.

“I can’t say why I will or won’t make a decision in my future, Connor,” he says, eventually. “But, if I had to guess, I’d suppose perhaps some sentimental part of me still felt you might one day be saved. It’s pleasant to know ahead of time that my faith will be so richly rewarded.”

“It was a mistake,” Connor says.

“An accident? I find that hard to believe.”

“Not an accident,” Connor says. “But a mistake.”

“Gratifying,” Haytham says. “If you could take the trouble to go back and unmurder me, your words might have more meaning.”

-

Aveline doesn’t have to turn her head to know that Edward is there, leaning against the fence next to her and looking out over the workers.

“Never had much taste for slaving,” he says.

“Only the murder and looting, then?” she asks.

“You’re an Assassin!” he protests. “Why are you Assassins all so bloody uptight about killing people?”

She tries not to smile. “You have to weigh the price of a life against what it buys, I think. A ship full of men in exchange for a hold full of rum?”

“Good rum’s worth many more lives than I’ve spent to obtain it, I’ll have you know,” Edward says. “And what if the cargo’s of slaves?”

“Lives to free lives,” she says. “A fair exchange.”

Edward laughs. “You should talk to my first mate. I think you’d get on.”

“Your first mate cannot see or hear me.”

“Well, yes, but other than that you’d get on splendidly. Are you going to let me see your blades in action today?”

“As it happens,” she says, “I’m not sure ‘showing off’ is a cause worth killing for.”

“A pity,” he says. “Do let me know if you change your mind.”

-

“What is troubling you?”

Desmond stares at the orb.

“A lot of things,” he says, and then, “Shaun and Rebecca, I guess. They didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Goodbyes are difficult,” Connor says. “They still care for you.”

Desmond gives him a half-smile. “Thanks.”

He lifts his hand above the orb. Hesitates.

“It’s not even really a choice,” he says. “I mean, me versus the world? It’s just...” He shifts, uncomfortably. He’s so aware of every sensation, the rough denim of his jeans, the stillness of the air against his skin, now that he knows he’s about to lose it all. “I don’t want to die alone.”

“You are not alone,” Connor says.

“You’re not real,” Desmond says. “No offence. But you’re just the Bleeding Effect. Aren’t you?”

He reaches out to touch Connor’s shoulder, to check if he feels solid, even though he knows he will already; the visions always do. He remembers too late, when he sees Connor’s expression, how much Connor hates being touched.

“Sorry,” Desmond says, drawing back his hand. He feels more alone than ever.

And then someone slaps him on the back, and he almost has a heart attack, and that’d be fucking stupid, wouldn’t it, dying just before he can sacrifice himself for the good of the world?

“Looked like you needed company,” Edward murmurs in his ear. “Or at least slightly more cheerful company than this one here.”

Connor takes a wary step back.

A few visits back, Desmond found out that Edward’s surname was Kenway. He asked Shaun if they knew anything about a pirate named Edward Kenway afterwards, trying to make it seem casual. Turned out he was Haytham Kenway’s father. Connor’s grandfather.

Do they know they’re grandfather and grandson? Should he tell them?

For fuck’s sake, they’re his hallucinations.

“You always give me that look,” Edward says to Connor. “I’ve given up piracy, you’ll be pleased to hear. Settled down. Joined that ‘higher cause’ most of you kept pestering me about.”

Connor nods. “I am glad to hear it,” he says. “But my father will be displeased. He asks me often if I’ve seen you. I think he hoped to have you for his own cause.”

“Your father?” Edward asks. “Who is your father to me?”

“Haytham Kenway,” Connor says. “You will have met him; he is also a visitor.”

Edward stares at him.

“Haytham Kenway is a babe, too young to walk,” he says. “And I’ve met no visitors by that—”

He freezes, the look in his eyes changing.

“A different one,” he murmurs. “Surely. But then why would he hide his identity?” He focuses again on Connor. “What do you mean, ‘his own cause’?”

Well, time to touch the orb. Desmond will die, but at least he’ll be getting away from the world’s most awkward family reunion.

A hand catches his wrist.

“I know what you’re about to do,” Ezio says. “I couldn’t let you go without seeing you one last time. It seems I was not the only one.” He gestures around them.

Connor is still there, of course, and Edward, but Aveline has appeared as well, and Altaïr, and, looking uncomfortable, Shay. Even Haytham is there, although he seems to have taken one look at Connor and Edward’s conversation and decided to stay well back in the shadows.

“The Templars might not just be here to say goodbye,” Desmond says, eyeing them warily.

“The Templars want to reshape the world in their own image,” Ezio says. “They do not want it to end. And, if they attack, you have the powers of five Assassins to protect you.”

Protect him for death, Desmond thinks.

“It’ll be harder, having all of you here,” Desmond says. “Knowing that I’m leaving it all behind.”

“We all died centuries before you,” Ezio says, with a shrug. “In a sense, perhaps you’re joining us.”

Desmond doesn’t know if he can really take comfort in that, but he no longer feels like he’s dying alone. Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, even Haytham: he knows these people so intimately, from his time in the Animus, from visitations. And then there are the others, the visitors he’s never completely been able to explain away with the Bleeding Effect, the ones he never met in the Animus. Edward. Aveline. Shay.

He catches Altaïr’s eye. Their first meeting seems so long ago, now.

Whether they’re real or not, they’re here. That means something, doesn’t it?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredibly kind comments! I'm delighted that people are enjoying this. I wasn't initially planning to write any more in this universe, but some people said they'd like to see more and I found I couldn't stop thinking about it, so here's another set of scenes!
> 
> I'm setting this as complete for now, just because I have no idea whether I'll be returning to it, but it is a little tempting to go for the full set of two-person combinations.

He was on a roof. He was on a roof, thinking about how to strike. Where is he?

Despite Altaïr’s recent visits from strange disappearing figures, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might himself disappear. But that seems to be exactly what has happened. He’s suddenly standing in a large circular room he’s never seen before, and an unknown man is staring at him, as well he might.

“Altaïr?”

What?

“Connor told me you were one of us,” the man says softly. He wears what looks like an Assassin’s garb, although different from that worn at Masyaf, and his accent is not from the Holy Land. “I confess I did not believe him.”

“How do you know me?” Altaïr demands. “Tell me what is happening to me.”

The man kneels at once and takes Altaïr’s hands in his own, presses his lips to first one and then the other. Altaïr stares.

“I am honoured by your visit,” the man says, bowing his head. “More than can be measured. My name is Ezio Auditore da Firenze. I am striving to uphold the work you have done.”

“It is unwise to mock me,” Altaïr says, tense.

Ezio looks up to meet his eyes again. “I mock only enemies and friends,” he says. “You are something more than either. I promise I do not mock you.”

“What do you mean? What am I to you?”

“Look behind you,” Ezio says.

Altaïr is not fool enough to turn. He edges around Ezio in a half-circle, so he can keep his eyes on him, and looks up at the opposite wall. Is...

Is...

That can’t possibly be...

“Is that a statue?” Altaïr asks. He seems to have been transported out of Jerusalem altogether, and yet this is stranger. “Of _me?_ What is this place? This is ridiculous.”

Ezio breaks into a small smile, quickly suppressed.

Altaïr catches it and gives him a hard stare. “You mock me now.”

“Perhaps a little,” Ezio admits. “But as a friend, I hope.”

-

Desmond finds himself on the deck of a ship.

Connor, he thinks. Or Haytham. That’ll be uncomfortable; he always feels like Haytham’s watching him appraisingly, trying to decide whether to put a blade through his throat or not. Maybe Ezio, but he doesn’t spend as much time at sea as those two.

He looks around. Not the _Aquila_.

He looks up for a flag.

It’s an honest-to-God skull and crossbones. Or... are those crossbones? It’s too high up to tell. But that is definitely a black flag with a skull on it.

Do pirates even fly flags like that? He always kind of assumed it was just in movies.

Okay. So one of his ancestors has been captured by pirates. Or maybe joined some pirates? Probably Haytham, then, although he can’t imagine Haytham would settle for anything short of captaincy.

He looks at the helm.

The captain is wearing an Assassin’s cloak.

Maybe not Haytham.

Desmond approaches the helm, cautiously. The Assassin’s hood is down, and it’s obvious that he’s a stranger, not anyone Desmond’s been in the Animus. Not the guy Desmond’s here to visit, then. One of his ancestors must be elsewhere on this ship.

And then the captain looks up, in Desmond’s direction. Desmond glances back to see who or what he’s looking at.

There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting behind him. He looks back at the helm.

The captain is looking right at him. The captain is meeting his eyes.

This stranger can _see_ him.

“You’re one of the new arrivals, aren’t you?” the captain asks. “I don’t know your face.”

A pirate, Desmond reminds himself. A pirate Assassin (is that even possible? Can you be a pirate who doesn’t harm innocents?), but still a pirate. Probably best to stay on his good side.

It seems weird that being trained as an expert murderer actually makes someone _less_ scary.

“Yeah,” Desmond says. “Uh, sir.”

“Try ‘Captain’,” the captain says, amused. “Or you could call me Edward. We’re all brothers here.” He gestures to the man next to him. “This is Adéwalé.”

“Hey,” Desmond says, raising a hand.

Adéwalé is frowning in Desmond’s direction. Not actually _at_ Desmond. At a point slightly to his right.

“Captain,” Adéwalé says, “it does not instil confidence in the men when you speak to people who are not there.”

Edward raises his eyebrows and looks back at Desmond. “Oh, so you’re one of _them_?” He laughs. “How long did you expect to pass yourself off as an invisible crew member?”

Desmond had thought that maybe everyone on this ship would be able to see him, if this stranger could. But no; apparently he’s here to visit Edward specifically.

How is this possible? He doesn’t know Edward. He’s never been this guy in the Animus. Is he bleeding so badly that his head’s making up totally new people for him to hallucinate about? Or is Edward another guy in his genetic memories, who he’s somehow accessing early?

“Take the helm, Adé,” Edward says. “I’d like a word with our guest.”

“ _Captain_ ,” Adéwalé says, obviously exasperated, but he takes the helm.

Edward places a hand on Desmond’s back – Desmond still can’t get over how _real_ it feels whenever one of his ancestors touches him (or maybe he should start calling them ‘visitors’, like the others do, if he doesn’t know whether this guy’s a relative) – and steers him down the steps to the main part of the deck. Down some more steps. Into a lavishly outfitted cabin.

For one weird, weird moment, looking around what he guesses are Edward’s private quarters with Edward’s hand on the small of his back and Edward’s other hand loosely circling his wrist, Desmond feels like he’s about to get laid.

“What’s your name, lad?” Edward asks, letting go of him.

“Uh.” Desmond gives his head a little shake, trying to clear it. “Desmond.”

“Desmond.” Edward perches on the edge of a circular table with maps spread over it. “I won’t ask you not to visit, because I know you can’t control it and I can’t promise the same thing in return. If you don’t try to interfere with my work, I’m sure we can be cordial.”

“You’re a pirate,” Desmond says.

“And you’re evidently a master of observation,” Edward says, smiling. “Do we have an arrangement?”

Desmond considers. Is he going to try to stop Edward? Is there even any point? He can’t change the past, right?

“Guess so,” he says.

Edward’s smile broadens. “Welcome aboard.”

-

“I almost didn’t recognise you with your hair tied back,” Haytham remarks. “You look better. Less scruffy. An ordered appearance helps to maintain an ordered mind.”

“I need your help,” Shay says.

Haytham raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I left the Assassins,” Shay says. “Something happened, and... it doesn’t matter. The point is, I left. I can see now what they’re doing.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been working with... with Templars. And we’ve been talking about me joining. But after everything I’ve been told to believe... I don’t know. It’s a tough decision.”

Interesting. Haytham knows that Shay is skilled. He’d be a welcome addition to any Templar branch.

“And you’re asking me for help?” Haytham asks. “I’d say you’ve already made your decision. I don’t imagine you expect an impartial response.”

Shay smiles, a little sheepishly.

“The Assassins and the Templars have always been closely bound,” Haytham says. He brushes his fingers over his own hidden blade as he speaks. “Many former Assassins have found atonement in our order. Word has reached me of an Assassin in my own time who has aided our cause. I hope to welcome him into our fold soon. I’m sure the Templars in your time would be equally fortunate to have you.”

Shay inclines his head. “Thank you.”

The visitation ends and Haytham thinks little of it until a fortnight later, when the former Assassin he has been told of comes for his initiation. Haytham is standing at the end of the table, hands behind his back, aiming to look serious but not unwelcoming, when a familiar figure comes into the light and shatters his composure.

“ _Shay?_ ” Haytham asks in disbelief.

Shay has frozen in the doorway. “Grand Master?”

“Lee, can you see this man?” Haytham demands. “Gist?”

“I should hope so,” Gist says. “I’ve been his first mate for some time.”

Who are the visitors? Altaïr and Ezio, centuries in the past. Desmond, centuries in the future. The only ones Haytham knows of from his own time are members of his immediate family. He always assumed that Shay lived in a different age.

Haytham strides down the table towards Shay. He feels compelled to – to touch him, to touch him, to know he’s real. But the visitors always do feel real, of course.

Which means he needs to touch Shay and hear other people react to it. It’s the only way to be sure.

Haytham pulls Shay into a hug. Immediately there’s a storm of bewildered muttering from the table behind him, and he _knows_.

“Jesus Christ,” Shay mutters by his ear. “With respect, Grand Master, this is terrifying.”

-

It’s disconcerting when you suddenly go from ‘explosive naval battle’ to ‘crouching in a tree’. Shay clings to the branch he’s on as he tries to get his bearings.

“I was hunting,” Connor says, aggrieved.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Shay says, managing to steady himself. “Not like the deer can hear me.”

Connor shakes his head. “I won’t be able to focus.” He slips down to the ground, landing gently, and Shay follows.

“So,” Shay says. “Any interesting goings-on on the homestead?”

“Nothing the Templars need to know about.”

Shay sighs, but it doesn’t surprise him. The first time he found himself on Connor’s homestead, he forgot himself and tried to attack Achilles. If they try to interact with the world while they’re visiting, they use the body of the person who’s physically there. He tried to make Connor attack his own mentor. Going by his talks with the other visitors, he suspects Connor doesn’t completely trust any of them, and he probably trusts Shay least of all.

Might as well make the effort, though. His time with Connor tends to fall into two categories – ‘standing still in furious silence’ and ‘Connor escorting him very quickly away from anyone he cares about in furious silence’ – and Shay isn’t fond of either of them.

“You know,” Shay says, “these visits will probably go a lot quicker if we can speak civilly.”

“I have nothing I wish to speak with you about.”

“Could talk about sailing,” Shay says. It worked as an icebreaker with Edward, after all. “Yours is the _Aquila_ , isn’t she?”

Connor says nothing. That ice isn’t being broken any time soon.

Shay’s about to give up and resign himself to another visit of hostile silence when Connor speaks.

“You know my father,” he says. “Don’t you?”

Shay looks at him, surprised. “Well enough,” he says, after a moment.

“What’s he like?”

“You know what he’s like. You’ve met him. Visits and reality, same as me.”

Connor shakes his head and speaks haltingly, glancing away. “What’s he like when he... doesn’t see you as an enemy?”

Shay frowns. “I never felt he saw you as an enemy first,” he says. “He sees you as his son.”

Connor looks sharply back at him, and Shay sees the shock in his eyes, and then the air is full of spray and shouting and cannon fire.

Shay dwells on the visit for a long time afterwards, but he never speaks to the Grand Master about it.

-

“Ah, my lady,” Ezio says, bowing. “Why is it that there is only one woman amongst the eight of us? Life is cruel. And yet you are lovely enough to be worth many fine women.”

“My lord,” Aveline says, with the tiniest of curtseys. “You flatter me, but, alas, I agreed to marry Haytham Kenway just last week.”

Ezio laughs and dispenses with the flirtation; he knows she has little patience for it. “So how do I find you?”

“Well enough,” Aveline says. “Gérald says he has something to show me.”

“Gérald?” Ezio echoes. “Who is this Gérald?”

Gérald turns out to be a young man working with the Assassins, and plainly besotted with Aveline. Ezio cannot fault his taste, but he also cannot resist following him around as he shows Aveline her headquarters, mimicking all his lovestruck glances. Aveline is trying very hard not to laugh.

“Is, er... is everything all right?” Gérald asks eventually, looking concerned and confused.

Aveline quickly masters her expression. “Of course. Thank you, Gérald; it’s perfect. Will you leave me alone for a while? I would like to acquaint myself with this room.”

Gérald bows and retreats.

The moment he’s out of sight, Aveline hits Ezio on the arm, not hard enough to hurt. “That was cruel,” she whispers.

Ezio holds up his hands, all innocence. “I am merely concerned he might interfere with your betrothal to the Grand Master. How would I live with myself, knowing I had stood by and watched such a close friend betrayed by his wanton fiancée?”

“You’re an evil man,” she says. “I’m going to speak to Gérald. Behave yourself.”

They find Gérald testing an intriguing weapon shaped like a parasol. “Elegant and deadly,” he says, “just like my lady.”

Ezio can’t help it; he doubles over with laughter, and apparently it’s contagious, because Aveline’s composure collapses as well. Gérald turns a remarkable shade of red, stutters an apology and leaves the room, almost tripping over his feet.

“Gérald! Gérald, wait!” Aveline calls after him, still laughing. She lingers just long enough to tap her hidden blade and aim a pointed glare at Ezio’s neck before she leaves in pursuit.

-

He has intruded upon Altaïr at a private moment.

Altaïr is kneeling over a body Connor recognises as his mentor, Al Mualim. Connor intends to move quietly away and wait to be returned to his own time. Altaïr is short-tempered and stubborn, although many have said the same of Connor himself, and they often end up arguing even at the best of times. Altaïr will not want to see him now.

Altaïr looks up and meets his eyes, and for a moment they just stare at each other.

“Sit with me,” Altaïr says.

Connor hesitates, then sits down next to him, beside his mentor’s husk.

Altaïr is looking at Al Mualim again, and he doesn’t take his eyes off him as he speaks. “You have a difficult relationship with your father.”

The thought of him still catches in his throat. “I killed my father. Difficult, yes.”

“You killed him?” Altaïr asks, looking sharply at him.

“Since we last met,” Connor says. Or since he last met Altaïr, at least; he can’t be sure he won’t meet the younger Altaïr again in his future. “Yes.”

With two fingers, Altaïr traces the veins that still show in Al Mualim’s hand.

“I feel I killed my father today,” he says.

He was the one to kill him? Connor is surprised, but he does not ask why.

“I have never been good at offering words of comfort,” Connor says.

“Offer me nothing,” Altaïr says. “Sit with me and understand.”

So Connor does, for as long as he can stay.

-

She’s in a small, narrow room full of people, and it’s moving fast. “What is this place?” Aveline asks, half-laughing, grabbing a pole to keep herself from overbalancing. “Are we on a ship?” She looks out of the window. It’s too dark to be sure, but it seems like they’re _indoors_.

Desmond looks around at her, startled. He has his hood up. He doesn’t usually. After a moment he edges closer to her, and she knows it’s so the others around them won’t hear.

“We’re on a train,” he says, quietly. “In Brazil.”

A very faint voice Aveline recognises as Shaun’s comes from... somewhere. She doesn’t know where. It sounds like it’s coming from _Desmond_ ; she doubts she’d be able to hear it if he weren’t so close to her. “ _Yes, Desmond, we know. Who exactly are you talking to?_ ”

Desmond winces and fiddles with something near his ear.

“This is our stop,” he says, after a moment. He smiles at her. “Guess you’re finally going to see somewhere else, huh?”

Aveline’s visited Desmond before, in the Precursor temple. It’s impressive, certainly, but a little gloomy, and there’s not a lot there. Besides, the ruins of an ancient civilisation aren’t exactly the _future_ , and the future is something she’s curious about. He’s offered to show her more of his time, but the others have always prevented him from leaving.

“Even if that somewhere’s a metro station,” he says. “And then a bus. Sorry. We’re on our way back. You haven’t shown up for anything very interesting.” And then he breaks into a grin. “Actually, if you can hold on for the bus ride, you might like what happens afterwards.”

Aveline doesn’t know what Desmond is apologising for, because the bus turns out to be _fascinating_. It’s so much faster than a carriage, and yet nothing seems to draw it. She spends the whole journey looking out of the window, watching the landscape go by, and the strange styles of building, and all the smaller buses (‘cars’, Desmond corrects her at one point) that only carry two or four or five people.

“How do they work?” she asks Desmond. “The cars.”

Desmond laughs. “God, don’t ask me things like that. Could be magic, for all I know. I wish I could get this excited about transport.”

Aveline’s a little disappointed when they eventually get off the bus. It’s been a pleasant distraction from the concerns in her life: the tension with Agaté, the state of her father’s health, the constant need to act and deceive and play roles until she no longer knows which face she wears is her own.

“What happens now?” she asks.

“Now?” Desmond asks. “We fly.”

-

Edward is crouching in the undergrowth, edging ever closer to his assassination target, when he finds himself in a tavern. An awkward time for a visit.

He looks around. He hopes it isn’t Desmond. Desmond was his last visitor – an earlier Desmond, of course – and it was strange and sad, trying to conceal from him that he’d watched him die a month ago.

He’s wasted his hope. It’s someone worse.

It’s the man in the cocked hat. It’s Haytham. It’s his son.

He’s used to Haytham closing off his face the moment their eyes meet, but this time Edward sees something like fear there. He must know that Edward knows.

It’s haunted Edward ever since Connor told him. How did his son grow up to be a Templar?

Neither of them moves for a long few seconds. Eventually Haytham gestures subtly to the entrance of a secluded room, away from the boozing and boardgames, and then turns to walk into it. After a moment’s hesitation, Edward follows.

Haytham is standing stiffly in the centre of the room, not moving to sit, his hands clasped behind his back. Edward watches him and wonders how he could ever have failed to see the man’s mother in his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Edward asks.

“Many reasons,” Haytham says. “Some I’m sure you can imagine. We have different ideologies that I felt might cause conflict, and I had no desire for conflict with you. And...” He hesitates.

“Tell me,” Edward says. “Whatever you have to say, I need to hear it.”

“I feared it would... change your treatment of me, as a child,” Haytham says. “Knowing what I would grow up to become. And yet I know that the past is the past, and you never treated me with anything but affection.”

That surprises Edward. He loves his son, he doesn’t think anything he learns about his future could change that, but he’d assumed... “You weren’t unhappy?”

Haytham looks at him for a moment, without speaking.

“There are unhappinesses in every life,” he says, eventually. “But I loved you, and knew I was loved in return.” He gives him an odd, regretful smile. “You’re certainly not the poorest father in our family.”

Edward lets out a long breath.

“I thought you must have hated me,” he says. “I thought you joined the other side to distance yourself as much from me as you could.”

“I am a Templar because I believe in the Templar cause,” Haytham says. “The Assassins are my enemy, but I have never hated you. I swear it.”

“Good,” Edward says. He swallows. His throat is tight. “That’s good.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to have to accept destiny and mark this as a WIP. There's no excuse for failing to write the full set of interactions at this point. We've come too far to turn back now.
> 
> Thank you so, so much; the response to this has been amazing! I'm ecstatic that people are enjoying this silly universe. I'm having so much fun writing it.
> 
> I have to give credit here to [salanaland](http://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland) and [Eloa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eloa/pseuds/Eloa), who helped me find some inspiration for these scenes!

“They have information I need,” Altaïr growls. “They wish to speak of it, I know. But they see me and they stop talking. Why? The scholars do not trouble them. I look the same.”

“These are the scholars?” Aveline asks, gesturing towards a passing group. She watches them for a moment. “Hmm. Show me your imitation again?”

Altaïr adopts the scholars’ pose, feeling ridiculous.

“It’s in the way you hold yourself,” Aveline says. “It is not enough to clasp your hands and bow your head. Your tension and pride show through.” Her eyes trace the line of his shoulders. “May I?”

Altaïr hesitates. He dislikes the idea of giving up control. But these men are out in the open, away from any hiding places, and they refuse to converse with him nearby, and he must know where his target will be tonight.

“Do as you must,” he says, closing his eyes.

When he opens them again he is looking at his own body from outside, but it is only from the weapons that he can recognise it as his. The way Aveline holds herself, the way she moves, there’s nothing of Altaïr in there. She has made him into a scholar, and she walks past his target’s chattering servants without drawing so much as a glance.

There are no female Assassins at Masyaf, Altaïr finds himself thinking, watching her.

Later, when Masyaf falls to him, he will remember this moment, and he will make changes.

-

“How grows the Brotherhood?” Haytham asks, brushing his fingers over Ezio’s records.

“That is information for brothers, I think,” Ezio says. “Don’t you?”

Haytham gives him a shrewd look. Ezio can see him calculating, trying to determine whether there’s any point in lying.

“You spoke to me as a brother before,” Haytham says, eventually.

“I thought you were one,” Ezio says. “But Connor has warned me of you, my Grand Master.”

Haytham smiles coldly. “Connor needs to rein in his tongue. What else has he told you?”

An interesting question. “What else is there to tell?”

Haytham doesn’t speak for a moment. “So what happens now?” he asks, eventually.

“Now?” Ezio asks. “I suppose I take other routes to discover whatever it is you are keeping from me.”

“By all means pry into my affairs, if it amuses you,” Haytham says. “I only felt our visits were the more pressing matter. Can we agree that your time is yours and my time is mine, and there’s no need for either of us to interfere?”

A truce? Ezio would probably feel more at ease without the risk that Haytham might try to control him, it’s true.

“Perhaps,” Ezio says. “But I will step in if you ever try to harm the other visitors.”

The corner of Haytham’s mouth twitches. “I will treat each of them like my own child, I assure you.”

-

There’s not much change in the sounds or the spray or the roll of the deck under his feet, but he knows in an instant that he’s visiting. It’s the warmth that does it: a glorious wash of heat that makes him wonder why he spends so much time pissing about in the North Atlantic. He closes his eyes, drinking it in.

“Another one? Let’s hear it, then.”

Shay opens his eyes. It’s someone new. Assassin cloak, of course. For Christ’s sake, why are they always Assassins? “Hear what?”

“How I’m not worthy of the clothes I’m wearing,” the man says, shrugging. “How I’m sullying them in my pursuit of a livelihood. If you must know, I wear them because they’re comfortable and solidly made. They’re clothes. You can’t expect a man to sign a contract every time he puts on a shirt.”

This is stirring something in Shay’s mind. He and Ezio had a talk, back when they were on the same side, trying to determine who the other visitors were. Ezio mentioned a man who wore the cloak despite not being a member of the Brotherhood. Shay had never met him.

Not an Assassin, then. More at ease now, Shay looks about the deck of the ship he’s found himself on.

“She’s a beauty,” he says. “What’s her name?”

The man stares at him.

“The _Jackdaw_ ,” he says, after a moment.

“Mine’s the _Morrigan_ ,” Shay says. “My ship, I mean, not my name.” He holds out a hand. “Shay Cormac.”

A moment longer passes before the man breaks into a grin and takes it. “You’ll have to tell me about her,” he says. “Edward Kenway.”

“Pay a visit and I’ll show you,” Shay says, thinking. Did he say _Kenway_?

He glances over at the first mate – it can’t be, surely – and has to fight any expression back from his face. It is. It’s Adéwalé. He’s sure of it.

Should he ask the Grand Master about this?

It’s none of his business. For now, he’ll just be glad to have a new visitor who isn’t an enemy.

-

“It seems you and I have some common ground.”

Edward is just getting to his feet, shock making him unsteady, and he near falls off the roof at the voice. He sits again, for his own safety. A moment longer up here, perhaps. Kidd will snipe at him for being late, but Kidd just changed into a woman in front of his eyes, and Edward thinks he’s justified in wanting a moment to come to terms with this.

His visitor is Altaïr. Edward tries to remember what he just said. “Our clothes weren’t common ground enough?”

“My clothes were won through training and discipline,” Altaïr says. “ _Your_ clothes—”

“Yes, all right, I know,” Edward interrupts. Now that his mind is clearer, this isn’t the first time James Kidd has knocked him sideways; he didn’t know what to think when Kidd proved to be of the same breed as these people who keep crossing time just to lecture him. “You’re speaking of lads turning out to be lasses, then? I suppose it’s easy to hide a person’s form under one of these cloaks.”

“Not an Assassin,” Altaïr says. “And women are now free to take the cloak. But yes, I have seen this before.”

For once, perhaps Altaïr is a welcome presence. Edward could do with someone to speak to about this, and Kidd himself will probably be unsympathetic. Herself, that is. This will take some getting used to.

“Did it change your relationship?” Edward asks. “James Kidd’s friendship was not easily won. I’m loath to lose it now.”

“Our relationship was all in steel,” Altaïr says. “She was an enemy, not a friend. But I suppose it did change it, in a way.”

“In a way?”

Altaïr smiles little, but he smiles now. “I married her.”

Edward stares at him, and then he turns to stare out into the night, the way Kidd went.

“I’m already married,” he murmurs, half to himself.

-

Haytham spends some time sitting in the cave after Ziio has left, trying to arrange his dishevelled person, trying to fix every detail of her in his mind: her warmth, her scent, her roughened skin, her tongue sharp in both speech and silence. Eventually, though, he decides it’s time to address the other matter at hand.

“Desmond!” he calls.

No response. The cave is silent.

“Desmond,” he says, “I know you’re here. You have seen something extremely personal. The least you can do is apologise.”

Nothing happens for a moment longer, and then Desmond slowly emerges from behind an outcrop of rock.

“I was hoping you hadn’t noticed,” he mutters, staring at his feet.

“Had you conducted yourself differently, I might not have,” Haytham agrees. “I was rather distracted. But it’s hard to ignore when a man appears out of the air and _shrieks_.”

Desmond flushes. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“It was not enough to ruin my evening,” Haytham says. “But it was impolite.”

“Sorry,” Desmond says. “Believe me, I was trying to leave. I – I kept my eyes closed.”

“Do not let this happen again,” Haytham says.

“I’ll try,” Desmond says. “I swear. But I don’t know if I can control it.”

“Do not let this happen again,” Haytham repeats, “or I may prove a danger to your friends in the future on my next visit.”

Desmond stares at him. “They’re Assassins,” he says, after a moment.

Haytham almost laughs. Desmond still believes him to be an Assassin? Where did this conviction come from? “A tragic loss, no doubt, but I will endeavour to control my weeping.”

“You don’t seem like a dick in the Animus,” Desmond mutters. “I thought you’d be friendlier.”

“I am friendly to my friends,” Haytham says. “Do we have a deal?”

-

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye. She knows she’s alone in the house. An enemy? A visitor? She flicks out her blades, just in case.

But it’s neither of those.

“Connor?” she asks, startled. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

Connor stares at her. “You can see me?”

Surely not. “You’re a _visitor_?”

“I did not know you were one of us.” He smiles a little. It’s an expression that sits strangely on his face, but Aveline doesn’t think there’s insincerity behind it; perhaps he is just unused to smiling. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you,” she says, smiling in return. “But this is incredible! It’s a way to test if these visits are real! We can arrange to meet, and if you don’t appear I will know they were only in my mind.”

Connor goes still. “I have met another visitor in person,” he says. “We spoke of the visits. They are real.”

“Who did you meet?” she asks, curious. There are a couple of other visitors who live at the same time as them, as far as she can tell. But they’re both Templars, aren’t they?

“I am sorry,” Connor says. “Perhaps I will tell you one day.”

She knows not to press the issue. “Well, I have only your word, and for all I know your word is the word of a hallucination. If it would not trouble you, I would like to meet.”

He hesitates, then nods. “We can meet.”

“Have you a target we can hunt together?” she asks.

“We have hunted together before,” he says. “Let us meet in peace. Come to the homestead. There are many good people I would like you to know.”

-

Desmond always feels a little awkward, meeting visitors he hasn’t been in the Animus. The Animus brings its own awkwardness, of course, especially when he meets someone before they’ve lived through some of the things he’s seen, but still. Altaïr, Ezio, Connor: these are people he feels he knows. He didn’t spend that much time with Haytham, but... well, he’s never going to be making small talk with that guy. But Edward? Aveline? Shay? He doesn’t know what they’ve been through, and their lives are so different from his he never knows where to start a conversation.

When he gets out of this situation, he’s not going to be able to make new friends unless he already knows all the major events in their lives, past and future. It’ll be tough. Maybe Rebecca and Shaun will stay in touch. If not, well, he’d better find some common ground with the people in his head.

Is he really planning to spend the rest of his life hanging out with his hallucinations?

Maybe it’s best not to think too much about the future right now.

Shaun walks by Desmond’s workstation, muttering to himself. His footsteps stop abruptly. “Is that...?”

Desmond refuses to look around at him. Yeah, maybe he’s looking at websites on eighteenth-century sailing. So what? He already knows a little from Connor, of course, but Connor isn’t anywhere near as big on sailing as Edward or Shay.

“Desmond,” Shaun says, “I think you’ll find _I’m_ the historian here. You’ll have to write your own database puns if you put me out of a job. It won’t be the same.”

And then he bursts into song.

No, wait – Desmond is visiting. He’s on a ship, and the crew is singing heartily, and it’s _freezing_ , which means it’s probably Shay.

“You look distracted,” Shay says. Desmond looks around to find him at the helm. “Were you pulled away in the middle of something?”

Shay looks guarded, as he usually does. It makes sense; he and most of the visitors are on different sides. In a way, Desmond still finds it strange to think of himself as an Assassin, but the Templars definitely aren’t his friends.

That’s the Templars in his own time, though. Is there any real reason he and Shay can’t get along? It seems like it’s in his interests to make friends with anyone who could potentially take over his body.

“I was actually reading about sailing,” Desmond admits.

Shay laughs at that. “Got a taste for it, have you?”

“I guess you could say that,” Desmond says. “I’m definitely interested.”

“I won’t be courted into letting you take a turn at the helm, I warn you,” Shay says. “I know when I’m being flattered. I did much the same with our pirate friend.” But his voice is warmer now. “Books have their uses, but there’s no book on sailing that compares to the real thing. Keep your blades from me and my crew, and maybe I’ll give you a tour.”

-

“Beautiful and skilled,” Ezio remarks, as they watch Myriam clean her kill. “A fine woman.”

“We are fortunate to have her here,” Connor agrees. He is careful to stay a few paces from Ezio; he bears the man no enmity, but Ezio tries to touch him often.

Ezio watches her a moment longer. “I would like to speak with her.”

“What business could you have with Myriam?” Connor asks, puzzled.

“No business. Only conversation. You have never wished to speak with a woman for the pleasure of hearing her talk?”

“She will not hear you,” Connor says. Perhaps for the best; he is beginning to suspect Ezio’s intentions.

And then he finds himself standing exactly where Ezio was, looking at his own body three paces away.

A rush of fury and horror surges through him. This has happened before. Shay took over his body to attack Achilles, and now Ezio has possessed it to attack—

Not to attack, to _seduce_ , which if anything is _worse_ —

“Ezio, if you touch her, we will never be friends again.”

“I will do nothing untoward,” Ezio says, holding up Connor’s hands. “I will ask her how her hunting went, and then I will leave.”

“She is betrothed, Ezio!” Connor says urgently, but Ezio is already striding towards Myriam. Connor can only follow, straining to reclaim his body through sheer force of will. It worked before, but then he feared for Achilles’ life. However little he might want Ezio to speak to her through him, he knows in his heart that Myriam is not in danger.

Myriam greets Ezio brightly, believing him to be Connor. Ezio keeps to his word; he speaks to her only of hunting. But he does it as Ezio would, standing closer than Connor ever does, speaking and smiling warmly, punctuating his words with grand gestures and the occasional touch to the hand or arm. Myriam is still smiling, but she looks puzzled. Connor is so mortified he doubts he will ever be able to speak to her again.

Ezio disappears mid-conversation and Connor finds himself back in his own body. He excuses himself immediately and leaves almost at a run.

The next day, Myriam has an attack of nerves and vanishes before her wedding.

Once he’s tracked her down and brought her home, Connor swings a second hatchet into the porch pillar. He refuses to tell Achilles who he’s at war with.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally we come to the end of this journey! In this episode: tragedy, camaraderie, I accidentally give myself a ridiculous new 'ship. (To be honest, I think I've ended up 'shipping everything imaginable in the process of writing this.)
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read and enjoyed this, and in particular to everyone who's commented! This is the most fun I've had writing in ages, and I think that's due largely to the amazing response. It's been a joy to play around in this universe. I'm so happy other people have enjoyed it as well.
> 
> Again, particular thanks to [salanaland](http://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland) for inspiration! (And for, to my _immense excitement_ , writing [_Visitations_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4572612/chapters/10413519), another fic set in this universe.)

Ezio feels so detached from reality that it almost fails to surprise him when he finds himself in another place entirely. He is in an unknown room, built of metal and wood and brick and filled with strange objects, and it would probably fascinate or alarm him if he hadn’t just seen his family hanged in front of him.

He is standing beside a bed, partitioned off from the rest of the room by a low glass wall. The man in the bed stirs and opens his eyes, and then he scrambles away from Ezio, suddenly frightened.

“Oh, God,” the man says, half-laughing. “Ezio. Of course. So I’m seeing you as well.”

Ezio has not seen this man before. He has no idea how this stranger knows his name. He feels he should be curious, but somehow curiosity seems to be hovering out of his reach.

“Guess I should introduce myself,” the man says, drawing the covers back up around himself. He holds out a hand. “Desmond.”

Ezio takes the hand, mechanically.

Desmond has started to frown. “Hey, are you okay? I thought you’d be chattier.”

Ezio says nothing.

“When is it for you? I mean, what’s happened?”

He’s dreaming, Ezio decides.

When Desmond speaks again, his voice is much quieter. “It’s... it’s after the execution, isn’t it?”

Ezio goes tense. Desmond must feel it; somehow, Ezio’s hand is still in his.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond says. “I’m really sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.” He grasps Ezio’s forearm with his other hand and looks into his eyes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

For a long, long time afterwards, Ezio believes it was a dream. But he still thinks back to those words, when he needs them.

-

It’s interesting to be in the presence of such a significant historical figure, even if the two of them are on different sides, but Altaïr is still one of the less welcome visitors. Haytham and Ezio have an agreement: neither of them tries to interfere with the other’s time. Altaïr, however, refuses to make deals with Templars, and that means that Haytham must constantly be on his guard for attempts to seize his body.

Haytham is typically on his guard in any case, of course. But sometimes, when his concentration is taken up with something else – for example, stalking an Assassin through a settlement in the black of night...

Haytham finds himself suddenly outside his body, and he curses. Now he’s going to have to watch himself—

Hmm. He’s going to watch himself swing around to meet the surprise attack from his target, apparently. How did he fail to notice her there?

Altaïr, he’d assumed, but it can’t be. An ally. Shay?

Haytham watches himself choke the target unconscious and hide her in the undergrowth, and then he finds himself back in his body. He looks around at once to see who came to his aid.

Altaïr is standing before him, looking insufferably smug.

“You do remember I’m your enemy, don’t you?” Haytham asks, wiping blood from his lip.

“But you’re also one of us,” Altaïr says. “Whatever we are.”

“I didn’t realise you’d grown fond of me.”

“I do not do this for nothing. In return, you will spare the Assassin.”

Haytham looks down at his insensible target, lying half-concealed by thick ferns. “She has been a thorn in our side for a very long time.”

“And she will be one for longer,” Altaïr says. “The trade is your life for hers. I have offered you your life. If you don’t want it...”

They watch each other for a moment.

“Very well,” Haytham says, eventually. “She may live.” He gives Altaïr his hardest look. “Stay on your guard, or perhaps I’ll save your life in return.”

-

“Yeah, I know how you feel,” Desmond says, running to keep up with Connor. “My dad’s pretty much a dick as well.”

Although his dad never actually caused the Boston Massacre. That’s something.

“Where are we going, anyway?” He’s not sure he’s got this far in the Animus yet.

“There is a shipment of tea in the harbour,” Connor says. “Its sale will fund William Johnson, who intends to buy my village’s land. And my... allies” – he sounds as if he chooses the word uncertainly – “wish to send a message to the British government. We are going to destroy the tea.”

Desmond stops short. Technically, he doesn’t need to run to keep up with Connor; Connor’s the only one really running, and any visitors will be drawn along with him. They can’t stray too far from the person they’re visiting. Desmond just likes to move his legs, or the illusion of his legs, so he doesn’t feel like he’s being dragged.

Connor stops as well, all the same, and turns to face him.

“Destroy the tea?” Desmond asks. “By throwing it in the harbour? The Boston Harbour?”

“Yes,” Connor says.

This is... actually really cool. Desmond didn’t know much about the history of the Holy Land or Italy or Istanbul before he actually lived through it, but this is something he _knows_.

“Can I dump one of the crates?” Desmond asks.

Connor frowns slightly. “There will most likely be trouble. I will need to be in my own body to fight.”

“C’mon,” Desmond says. “If you get a quiet moment. Please.”

Connor hesitates a moment longer.

“If there is a quiet moment,” he says. “Perhaps.”

Desmond grins.

-

“Connor!” Edward exclaims. His voice is strangely hushed, but he’s grinning. “Been waiting for one of you to show up. Come over here. I’ve something to show you.”

Connor looks around as he approaches. He is used to visiting Edward on his ship, not in buildings. “What is this place?”

“This? This is my home,” Edward says. “Ended up settling in London. No more murdering. Well, less murdering, and for a new cause. You know I joined the Assassins?”

“You told me before,” Connor says. “When we gathered to say farewell to Desmond.”

“That sounds grim,” Edward says, after a moment. “Still have that to look forward to, I suppose. I’ll be sure to remember to tell you again.” He shakes his head. “But let’s think of happier things. Come on!”

Connor follows him to the doorway of a darkened room. Edward disappears inside it for a moment, and when he emerges he is holding something in his arms.

A baby.

“This is Haytham,” Edward says.

Connor feels as if he is watching himself from a very long way away. No. He killed his father only last week. Fate cannot do this to him.

Connor feels that the whole sorry story must be written across his face, but Edward is too absorbed in his son to notice.

“He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Edward asks. “The image of his mother. You’ll have to see her.”

He doesn’t know, Connor reminds himself. This is an Edward who has not yet seen Desmond’s sacrifice. This is an Edward who has no idea that the child in his arms will grow to father Connor and wipe out the Assassins of the colonies.

This is an Edward who has no idea that the man before him will kill his son.

The baby Haytham smiles and laughs and reaches out towards Connor, as if trying to catch hold of his cloak.

“Look at that,” Edward says, smiling fondly. “Could swear he sees you.”

-

“Monsieur Cormac,” Aveline says, wary. One of the visitors she knows to be the Templar Grand Master, and she thinks she has managed to conceal herself from him on the occasions when she has found herself visiting. But she first met Shay in his Assassin days. She spoke to him, thinking nothing of it. Now he is a Templar, and he knows who she is.

Shay nods. “Miss.”

She can see her own unease in his face, Aveline realises. He doesn’t feel the information he has gives him power over her; he’s busy thinking about the information she has on him. In their last conversation, Shay didn’t know they would end up on different sides either.

She feels herself relax a little. If they both have the same disadvantage, they’re facing each other on level ground.

Actually, Shay might be the person she needs to speak to just now. She folds her arms as a gesture of peace; this way he knows she won’t be able to attack suddenly, as it’ll take her a second longer to access any of her weapons. Shay, after a moment’s hesitation, does the same in return.

“You left the Assassins,” she says.

“Happens I already know that.”

“Did you know it was the right decision?”

Shay looks carefully at her. “Felt I didn’t really have a choice,” he says. “They made me do something that went against my conscience. And any chance of tearful reconciliation went when they nearly murdered me.”

“But you felt you were on the wrong side with them.” She was hoping to conceal her doubts from him, but she feels sure he’s already guessed. She’s spent her whole life hiding things, but maybe this uncertainty inside her is too much to bury. “You look back and you’re sure of that.”

“I don’t know about that. I know I did some good when I was with the Assassins.” He bites his lip. “Worked with some good people. Maybe another mentor wouldn’t have sent me to Lisbon and I’d still be with them, but I can only see from where I’m standing.”

Maybe, with another mentor, she wouldn’t be feeling like this. “Do you regret leaving?”

“I regret losing my friends,” he says. “I’d regret leaving more if I thought the Assassins were what they pretend to be. The Creed’s noble enough. Problem is people don’t follow it.”

He hesitates.

“I don’t know if I can say the Templar way is the right way for all of humanity,” he says. “But it was the right way for me.”

“The Templars exist to impose their views on humanity,” Aveline says.

Shay laughs. “And the Assassins don’t? Both sides, there’s all this trying to change the world. I’ve always found it easier to think smaller.” He pauses, whisks his hand in quick tight circles, like he’s trying to pull his thoughts into something he can express. “The way I saw it, New York was suffering under those gangs. Take them down, and things change for the people. It’s not the world, but it’s enough for me.”

“So you think I should do whatever helps the people I can see?”

“Do what you think’s right.” He shrugs. “Sorry. I know that’s unhelpful.”

“No,” she says. “No, I think it’s what I needed to hear. Thank you.”

-

“You never struck me as sentimental, Connor.”

“There are many things you do not know about me.”

He’s found himself in a churchyard, and both Haytham and Connor are standing a few feet in front of him, facing away. His son and his grandson. It’s still so strange.

Perhaps it would be best for Edward to stay out of sight.

But Haytham turns and sees him, and the fleeting expression that crosses his face – guilt? fear? pain? – is enough for Edward’s curiosity to hold him where he is, against his better judgement. Haytham nudges Connor, who turns and instantly takes a step backwards.

“A proper family reunion, I suppose.” Edward says it lightly, trying to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere, but the sense of unease only deepens.

“We should go somewhere else,” Connor mutters, not looking at him.

“Are you both truly here?” Edward asks. “Or is someone visiting?”

“I am here as a visitor,” Haytham says. “But I suppose we are both here, in a sense.”

Connor looks strangely terrified. “Father, don’t—”

“In a sense?” Edward asks. “What do you mean?”

Haytham pauses a moment. “Speech without thought,” he says. “It means nothing.”

But Edward’s eyes have already moved to the name on the grave behind them. _Haytham Kenway_.

It’s a vicious blow to the gut. Of course he never thought his son was going to live forever, but the difference between knowing your child is mortal and actually seeing the place he’s laid to rest...

He has to turn away, so he won’t see the dates. His legs feel unsteady.

“How did it happen?” he asks, even though he knows that knowing will destroy him.

“I cannot tell you.” He’s never known Connor to sound so upset. “I can’t tell you. Please don’t ask me.”

A hand on his shoulder. Haytham’s. Edward brings up his own hand to grip it, tightly.

After a moment, Edward holds out his other hand to Connor. “Come on,” he says. He’s managing to keep his voice steady, at least. “You’re one of us, too. If ever a man needed his family around him...”

Connor doesn’t take his hand. But he touches it, briefly, with his own.

When Edward is returned to his own time, he goes at once to check on Haytham, who is sleeping peacefully. He hardly lets the boy out of his arms for the next three days.

-

It’s often an uncomfortable experience, meeting the Assassins he’s somehow linked to. Shay tends to look for anchors to put him at his ease. If they’re visiting him, that’s all right, especially when he’s at sea; it might mean he’s at risk of being controlled, but he feels most secure when he’s on the deck of the _Morrigan_. If he finds himself in a group of visitors, he’ll look for a friendly face in Haytham or Edward.

Finding himself in the headquarters of Ezio’s Brotherhood, with Ezio, Aveline and Desmond? There’s no comfort to be had there.

Whatever the three of them were talking about, they’ve fallen silent at his appearance.

“Sorry,” Shay says. “Didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll...” He falters on his offer to go. It’s not a promise he can actually put into practice, and they all know it. It must be possible to control these visits, to some extent – he’s suspected for a while that Aveline is able to choose when she leaves – but Shay isn’t at that point yet.

Ezio gestures to a free seat, between Desmond and Aveline. “Sit down.”

Cautiously, Shay sits, and then he stands up again. Sitting here, being stared at by one of the most legendary figures of the Assassin Order? He can’t do it. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner lie in the corner and cover my ears.”

“Are we such poor conversationalists?” Ezio asks, mock-affronted.

“I’ve killed any conversation just by being here.”

“Because we were talking about you,” Aveline says. His discomfort must show on his face, because she laughs. “I was just telling them how you helped me when I was uncertain.”

He looks at her. “You stayed with the Assassins,” he says, half to check.

She nods. “But you put me at ease with my decision.” She reaches up to take his hand and pulls him back down onto the chair, and he’s so surprised that he lets her. “I think I misjudged you when I heard you’d joined the Templars.”

“You thought I was a traitor,” he says, shrugging, although the words don’t come easily. “I am.”

“Yeah, but it kind of sounds as if you had to be,” Desmond says. “If the Assassins in my time made me destroy a city, I don’t think I’d be able to just let that go.”

“Well?” Ezio asks. “Will you sit with us?”

Shay looks at Aveline. This doesn’t feel real. “I suppose I’ve nowhere else to be.”

Aveline lives around the same time as he does, he remembers. He wonders if they’ll ever meet in person.

If they do, they’ll most likely have been tasked with killing each other.

-

Altaïr sleeps poorly, dreaming of the Apple, and Al Mualim, and being forced to slay his own empty-eyed brothers. At one point he becomes aware that someone is in the room with him.

He opens his eyes.

Desmond is sitting with his back against the wall. In a way, Altaïr is pleased to see him, although he tries not to show it. Sometimes a man needs company. And Desmond often knows the things he has been through without being told, because of his ‘Animus’; it makes Altaïr uncomfortable, the concept of having his life spied on, but at this moment he wants his sorrow understood without having to speak it aloud.

Altaïr sits up.

“When is this?” Desmond asks.

“Al Mualim. The Apple.” It’s all he has to say, and Desmond’s eyes widen.

“Oh, man, Altaïr, I’m sorry.” He hesitates. “I didn’t know if I should tell you before.”

“I do not wish to know my future,” Altaïr says. He’s actually had to ask Ezio to stop telling him things.

Speaking of Ezio...

“Have I come at a bad time?” Ezio asks, looking back and forth between them.

“Al Mualim just used the Apple,” Desmond says.

Ezio crosses the room at once to lay his hand on Altaïr’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Mentor.”

“I’m not your mentor,” Altaïr mutters, knowing it will make no difference. But the touch of Ezio’s hand is warm, and somehow it seems to make him feel less detached. Strange, that it takes a man who is not really here to anchor him to the world again.

Edward is the next, and Desmond draws him aside to explain what has happened. Or try to.

“What? What’s an Apple? Well, I know what an apple is, but what are you talking about?”

Desmond simplifies things, it seems, and a moment later Edward is approaching Altaïr.

“I don’t know exactly what’s happened here,” Edward says, “but Desmond tells me you’ve suffered some loss, and that I understand.” He looks around. “You should have come to me. There’s rum, and song, and women. Of course, you’d have to experience the rum and women through me, but I’ll nobly drink all day if it helps a friend.”

“An intriguing offer,” Ezio says. “But we can still have song, surely?”

“Well, they’re not the same on land,” Edward says, with clearly feigned reluctance, “but I could teach you a few shanties.”

Aveline shows up when Edward and Ezio are halfway through a heartfelt rendition of ‘Lowlands Away’. She looks with a perplexed smile at Desmond, who shrugs. Aveline listens for a moment longer, and then, hesitant only at first, starts to join in on the repeated lines. Edward breaks off briefly to give her a cheer.

Shay appears during the next song, and Altaïr sees the unease flicker across his face – he’s in a room full of Assassins – before it’s swiftly followed by recognition. He launches into ‘Randy Dandy-O’ without a second thought. By this point Desmond is singing as well, a little selfconsciously. Altaïr keeps his silence, but he listens. It is far from a beautiful sound – Ezio and Desmond, in particular, are not great singers – but it does something to ease his sense of emptiness.

“Now,” Ezio announces, during a break in the shanties, “as you have been deprived of the pleasures of the minstrels of Italia—”

“Oh, Christ,” Shay mutters.

“Ah, yes,” Ezio amends. “Shay was fortunate enough to visit when I was cornered by three of them. But I feel it unfair that the rest of you have lived your lives bereft of Italia’s finest musicians.”

He sings until they beg him to stop. Haytham and Connor show up around the time Ezio apparently resorts to lyrics of his own invention (“ _It really is quite tricky to undertake these rhymes/with seven other minstrels in my head from different times_ ”), and neither looks as if they know what to make of this situation.

“What is going on here?” Haytham asks, when Ezio is eventually silenced.

“It’s a bit of fun, Grand Master,” Shay says. “We have the rest of time to clash. Let’s spend an evening as friends.”

Haytham looks sceptical, but he sits.

Aveline sings a little for them. Connor and Desmond will not be prevailed upon to sing them the songs of their own people, but Altaïr finds himself hoping that at some point they will be; he’s starting to get a sense of how many different styles of music there must be, all these varied times and places, and he would like to hear more.

By common agreement they return to the shanties, as they’re easy to pick up and sing. It’s not until the door to his bedchamber creaks open that Altaïr realises he’s been singing as well.

“Altaïr?” Malik asks, frowning sleepily at him. “What are you doing?”

The singing has stopped abruptly. Altaïr can hear Edward and Ezio struggling to suppress their laughter.

“I am beginning to heal, Malik,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an edit from the future for you! As you may have noticed, this fic has expanded into the vast and ridiculous [Visitorverse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/323396), which you may want to check out if you enjoyed this. Following the 'verse can be tricky, given the multiple authors and the complicated timelines. If you'd like a recommended reading order, [give this a go](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1aGgjG7T90_HbBGZhrvL4ovsuPly5zwqmXfPX8FR9yxU); it's not chronological (the separate timelines mean that a chronological list would be almost impossible), but it's the approximate order in which chapters were actually posted.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Visitations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572612) by [salanaland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland)
  * [Visitors (Gratuitous Wish-Fulfilment Edition)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608768) by [Riona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona)
  * [Ship of Visitors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611420) by [salanaland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salanaland/pseuds/salanaland)
  * [Visitor Paradox](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5854528) by [QueenSeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenSeal/pseuds/QueenSeal)
  * [Visitors in the Cosmere](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893616) by [dragoninatrenchcoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninatrenchcoat/pseuds/dragoninatrenchcoat)
  * [the ten duel commandments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210985) by [deltacrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltacrow/pseuds/deltacrow)
  * [Infamous Visitors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100208) by [LadyLustful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLustful/pseuds/LadyLustful)




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